The Girl
by Chewing Gum
Summary: Drabble Series: Poor Mycroft cringes at change, but all of a sudden he is handed a promotion, a house, and a wife. Now he has a sweet but rather dull girl on his hands and in his bed, and Sherlock seems determined to get himself killed...
1. Finding Solance

_Finding Solance_

Mycroft Holmes did not know why he picked up those cards that night in the Stranger's Room. Perhaps it was because it was not his habit, and throughout the course of the day his habits had been shaken quite thoroughly.

They wanted to promote him, and this dismayed him. They wanted to give him a house. They wanted him to be recognized for the important man he was.

Mycroft did not want to be recognized. He wanted his auditing and his rooms at Pall Mall and his chair at the Diogenes Club.

He did not want those cards, but he took them as he would take the promotion; in stride.

"I'm in." 


	2. Misfortune

__

Misfortune

Lord Chaplin had come to gather some cash to survive when they took his house and his possessions. He had not been aware when he sat down that he was playing with the most intelligent man in all of London.

He looked across the table at the portly gentleman before him who wore a look of such placidity that he might have been sleeping with his eyes wide open.

Lord Chaplin had only one way he could hope to settle a debt with this man.

"Mr. Holmes, are you married?" 


	3. Insanity

_Insanity_

Mycroft blinked at the man's proposal, a great deal more shocked than his outwards appearances showed. "Surely you cannot be serious, Lord Chaplin."

"I am. A proper dowry is about the same amount as my debt to you." His deeply lined face did not show so much as a trace of humour. Only desperation.

"Lord Chaplin, this is insane. I'll drop the debt."

"If she does not marry, she will become a courtesan."

Mycroft closed his eyes. A young girl punished for her father's foolishness was not just. On the other hand, however, it was also none of his business.

This was insane.

"What is her name?" 


	4. Annoyance

_Annoyance_

"I didn't think it possible, Watson, but Mycroft has become bored. I do believe he's devised a little puzzle for us."

Watson looked up. "How so, Holmes?"

"I've just received an invitation saying that he's to marry some girl in a matter of weeks, but the very idea is nothing short of preposterous. It's a bit of an annoyance, I must say, but at least it's something to occupy ourselves with. 


	5. Introduction

_

Introduction

_

She was a pretty, delicate little thing. She had fashionably pale skin, a crafted face, and golden ringlets that fell past her tiny shoulders. Her eyes were lowered, but in the split second she had looked into his face he had seen that they were cow-like; large, brown, and unintelligent.

Mycroft, though he had not yet spoke to her, knew enough about her. Her name was Ann Marie. She was seventeen. She made excellent tea. She was a virgin. These were the things her father had told him.

She was good with a needle and thread. She did not smoke. She had never worked a day in her life. She washed her hands after making her excellent tea. She was a virgin, and horrified at the thought of being otherwise.

These things he could deduce as he kissed her hand and slipped a diamond ring on her finger as her father watched, delighted. 


	6. Give Up

_

Give Up

_

Holmes was sitting straight and tall in the pew even though the wood was uncomfortable and digging into his back. He was in his freshly-pressed best suit, and Mrs. Hudson had insisted that he scrub his fingernails before leaving the flat.

He sighed as he watched his elder brother fidgeting like an altar boy at the front of the church in a suit that had no doubt fit him when he had been measured for it but was now too tight in the middle. Mycroft ate when he was nervous.

Holmes turned to Watson. "I give up. He's actually going to do it." 


	7. Flowers

_Flowers_

Mycroft turned his head as the girl started up the aisle. Her bouquet of white lilies almost hit her tiny form behind the petals and leaves, and her veil covered her face. He couldn't help thinking that he should be wearing a blindfold or a hood of some kind. Even condemned men were allowed a final cigarette.

She stopped beside him. Her father had walked her up, and now he sat in the wooden pew opposite Sherlock and the doctor. He had sold her, his own daughter, and yet he sat there smiling like and idiot with a white rose bud pinned to his jacket as if it were a metal of honour.

As the priest began to speak, Mycroft hoped to never see another flower as long as he lived. 


	8. Abandoned

_Abandoned_

Mycroft had never been so near to someone and yet felt so distant than as her danced with his new wife. He had never been the epitome of grace, but somehow he managed to avoid stepping on the hem of her dress.

He pitied her with all of his heart. He had married her out of pity. The girl had been abandoned, plain and simply. She was no longer another mouth for her father to feed. In the eyes of her family, she was gone.

He had saved her from becoming a Lady of the Night, but what kind of a life did she have now? She would be comfortable, but when it all came down to it, was she simply his personal whore?

Sherlock could not help but find the picture amusing; the very portly Mycroft and his tiny blonde bride moving as one across the floor. 


	9. Breathe Again

_Breathe Again_

Mycroft was alone in the bedroom of his new house, the bedroom that was not solely his anymore. The girl had gone elsewhere to change. He was grateful for that.

He unhooked his belt and unbuttoned his trousers and his waistcoat, breathing a great sigh of relief as he did so. He had barely touched his own wedding supper for fear he would suffocate himself. The suit had fit perfectly two months ago, but much had happened in those two months.

The fact that he had not had the time to be fitted for a new suit for his wedding spoke lengths about the whole matter.

Mycroft pulled on the bottoms of his blue silk sleepwear, running a fat finger over the red imprints his merciless belt had left on his bulging stomach. Then he put on and buttoned up his top before the girl returned. 


	10. Expectations

_Expectations _

Ann Marie Holmes was terrified. She knew what was expected of a girl on her wedding night, and it sounded quite painful, to speak nothing of crude.

She clutched her robe around her as she entered the bedroom. She lingered in the doorway, unsure of what she was supposed to do.

Her husband sat on the edge of his- _their_- bed, his hefty frame clad in blue silk. He heaved a sigh that was as heavy as he was.

"I will not force you."

She nearly burst into tears of pure relief. She managed to whisper "Thank you" as they both climbed under the covers and fell asleep at opposite ends of the bed.


	11. Silence

_

Silence 

_

The silence at the breakfast table the next morning was amazing.

Mycroft stole glances at the blonde girl across from him. She drank tea that had been made and presented by the maid. She ate a piece and a half of dry toast as if it were an entire dinner. When she looked up and saw him looking at her, she gave a brief, faint smile.

He wished she would say something. Anything. She was his wife, Mrs. Mycroft Holmes, and yet they acted like strangers.

There was no use in fooling himself; they _were_ strangers.


	12. Danger Ahead

_Danger Ahead_

He finally rose from his chair, exerting a bit of effort in doing so. With the girl watching him so intently with those large brown eyes of hers, he began to silently resent his ungainly bulk.

"Well… I'm off to work, I suppose."

The girl blinked as if she had been listening to something else entirely. "Oh, yes…" Without so much as glancing outside, she timidly suggested "You might want to bring an umbrella."

Mycroft snorted as he headed into the hall, pausing only to take his hat from the rack. The day was flawless; there was not so much as a cloud in the sky. They were not calling for rain for at least another week. He had known that the girl was no intellectual, but she seemed to be downright silly. 


	13. Under the Rain

__

Under the Rain

It was later said to be one of the heaviest rainfalls recorded in the city of London, and it had most certainly been one of the most sneaky.

Mycroft stepped into the entryway of the house. He was quite thoroughly soaked from head to toe, not only to the bone but to his very marrow. His hair was plastered the his skull as if it has been pasted there. His clothes carried enough water to sustain he and his good wife on a trek across the Sahara.

The girl looked apologetic, as if it had been her to made the clouds burst. She helped him from his wet jacket and handed it to the maid. "Mother says a wife always knows. I'll draw you a hot bath." 


	14. Multitasking

_Multitasking_

"So…" began Watson with a sly grin. "How are you and missus fairing these days?"

Mycroft did not bother looking up from his paperwork. "Doctor, we have been married all of three days, you are too proper of a man to ask such a thing, you would hardly come to my office, alone might I add, to ask such a thing, and, to top it all off, you are a horrible actor. Sherlock, if you want my help you need to swallow your pride and ask for it, so get your big nose out of my files this instant."

A disappointed "Damn!" resounded from the adjoining storage room. 


	15. Blood

_Blood_

The colour red is one that tends to catch one's eye, especially if it is set against a more dull colour. It was for this reason that Mycroft noticed the red flecks on the white sheets. Once he realized what it was, he was horrified, and gave a small cry.

The girl turned and saw the blood. Her cheeks flushed a brilliant shade of pink and she dashed for the bathroom, Mycroft tramping after her.

"For god's sake, are you alright? I… I'll summon a doctor!"

"Nothing's wrong!" she replied from the other side of the door. Her tones implied embarrassment. "It's… Well, it's that my Monthly's a bit early."

"Your Mon…" Mycroft realized, fell silent, went pale, and then tramped back to their room. 


	16. Playing the Melody

__

Playing the Melody

Watson leaned back in his armchair as he listened to Holmes's artful fingers coax a song out of the four wires.

Many houses away, Mycroft was peering into his own sitting room with the utmost of silence, rather afraid to enter it. The girl was there, lying on the sofa with a cool cloth over her eyes and a hot water bottle on her lower stomach.

He was the most intelligent man in all of London, perhaps in all of England, yet he was completely befuddled as to how women could survive such an ordeal once a month.

Watson heaved a sigh. "I wonder how Mycroft is doing…"

As if channelling his brother's emotions, Holmes hit a sour note. 


	17. No Time

**AN: I thought I'd take this chapter to both thank my reviewers and answer some questions. Thank you to everyone who's reviewed so far, and even put this story on Alert. I had no idea Mycroft had so many fans! Unfortunately, with exams around the bend, I don't have as much time as I'd like to, but I do what I can. Now, answers.**

1. I really have no excuses for typos. It's simply me rushing to get a chapter up.  
2. Although I try to stay as close to ACD's Mycroft, he doesn't give me much to work with. As a result, Charles Grey sneaks into him, and I'm through with trying to stop him.  
3. There was a reason the girl had lilies (although they are also popular at weddings for the symbolism of rebirth and new beginnings). Mycroft's inner thoughts relating to an execution made it rather clear it was like a funeral for him.  
4. Wires was used as a slang term. I am familiar with violins, I play one. It's simply another word, sometimes a more artistic one. It's like calling a synthetic football a pigskin.

And now that my babbling is done, the chapter!

_No Time_

"Really, Mycroft, you're going to choke," the girl chided softly as her husband wolfed down his breakfast like a lion devouring a zebra carcass. Well, a lion with impeccable table manners, anyway. After three months of marriage, they had tentatively begun to use each others' first names.

"I've got to get to Whitehall," grunted Mycroft, all but inhaling the rest of his plate and rising with as much speed as his large frame allowed. "Things are picking up and I seem to be the only one with half a clue as to what I'm doing. That and Sherlock is at it again."

The girl pursed her lips at the mention of her brother-in-law. The sole time he had been alone with her, he had told her to insist on being "on top", as he put it, "for safety's sake".

"Just bring an umbrella."

This time he listened. 


	18. Out Cold

_Out Cold_

The girl was positively silly. She knew full well that it was going to rain and she had no umbrella, yet she still went out to get white thread to mend one of his shirts.

"You," proclaimed Mycroft as the still shivering girl settled beside him on the couch in the sitting room. "Are silly."

Her teeth chattering, she simply gave a shrug.

Mycroft absentmindedly stroked her damp curls as he read his paper, noticing that she gradually began to lean more and more heavily upon his shoulder. Eventually he frowned and glanced over. Her eyes were closed. He pressed his lips to her forehead.

The silly thing was burning with fever, and she was out cold. He sent the maid for the doctor and carried her to bed. 


	19. Standing Still

_

Standing Still

_

Watson suppressed a smile as he glanced at Mycroft, who was standing at attention at his wife's bedside, as still as a Royal Guard.

"She'll be fine," the doctor finally said, shaking his head and rising from where he had been hunched over the girl. Lying there so still and pale with her blonde ringlets splayed across the pillow and her cheeks rosy with fever, she reminded him of a doll. "Her fever should break within the hour, and she'll wake up soon. Just keep her warm, and make sure she drinks enough."

Mycroft let out a sigh of relief, gazing down at the girl. "Thank you, doctor."

"My pleasure."

After Watson left, Mycroft pulled up a chair and held his position by the bed in a vigil until his wife awoke. 


	20. Hold My Hand

_

Hold My Hand 

_

Ann Marie's eyes flickered open as she slowly became aware of the world around her. She turned her head towards the door, and saw her husband sitting on a chair beside her.

His fingers were laced over his ample stomach, and his foot tapped a nervous, sporadic beat against the floor. His well-water eyes seemed to be looking everywhere except at her.

He finally glanced over, giving a small start of surprise. "Oh, Ann… I was worried…"

He continued to speak, and though she heard his soft tones, his words were beyond her at the moment. No one called her Ann, but now he would. She reached up and took his hand in hers, giving it a gentle squeeze. She gave a faint giggle when he gave a startled jump and his face flushed red.


	21. Can You Hear Me?

_Can You Hear Me?_

"Ann…? Can you hear me…?"

The girl glanced up, smiling tiredly. He had brought her tea. She tried to sit up, but the fever had left her weak.

Mycroft set the cup and saucer on the bedside table and placed a hand on her back and another on her arm, helping her prop herself up. He may not have asked for her, but he would treat her more kindly than her father had.

"Ann, can I ask you something? And answer honestly, now. Did you purposely get sick in an attempt to provoke matrimonial affection between us?"

She blinked. "Matrimonial…"

"Love."

Another blink. "… Oh, I wish I'd actually thought of that…" 


	22. Horror

_Horror_

Ann Marie scowled lightly as she got down on her hands and knees, trying not to think of all the dust and dirt that was on the floor. Her gaze ran under the large bed she and her husband shared.

Mycroft was going to a very important meeting, and one of his best cufflinks refused to be found. She simply could not let him wear his second best pair; her mother always said that when a man was underdressed, it reflected poorly on his wife.

Speaking of reflecting…

The lamplight was causing a diamond chip set in gold to sparkle. Ann Marie grinned, reaching out and closing her fingers around it. As she did so, she let out a blood-curdling scream. 


	23. Hero

__

Hero

Mycroft nearly killed himself getting up the stairs when he heard the girl's cry. If someone in the broom closet below had heard the rotund man's dash, he might have sworn than an elephant had just thundered by.

Panting, he burst into the room, expecting to see a pistol-wielding burglar. Instead, there was his wife huddled in the corner, half hysterical, pointing at the floor. When his eyes followed her finger, they came to rest on a rather large, but nevertheless harmless, spider.

Giving a sigh, he squatted and cupped the arachnid in his hands. He then rose, setting it on the windowsill and shooing it off. "Ann, you're impossible!"

She blushed deeply, but then held out his cufflink with a sheepish grin. 


	24. Drowning

_AN: My apologies for the slow updating, but that magical time called Exam Week snuck up on me and tackled me to the ground. I don't even want to know what my Chem mark was. Bleh. Please forgive me and take this offering of two chapters. This drabble was actually written for my English exam. The point was to take two fictional characters and paint a short scene with only dialogue. _

_Drowning_

"Holmes?"

"Yes, Watson?"

"Has anyone ever told you that curiosity killed the cat?"

"My father did, an abundance of times. Then again, he also proclaimed that neither of his boys would ever find a woman they could stand enough to marry. That was true before that little minx..."

"Holmes, it was not her fault. And don't change the subject."

"You always make things sound worse than they are. They'll be gone soon, I'm quite sure of that."

"I can't tread water much longer, Holmes."


	25. Rejection

__

Rejection

When Mycroft came straight home after work instead of stopping in at the Diogene's Club, the girl knew that something was wrong. She took his coat and hat before going to the kitchen, later tracking him to his study with a pot of her tea.

Her father had spoken the truth; she could steep a cup better than anyone else in London.

He was stressed, and she wanted to help. He thanked her for that, knowing that she was trying her best with what serendipity had handed her.

But when she suggested that he use her as a husband should use his wife, he became angry. He did not shout but he did raise his voice, and that was enough to make the girl cry.

He cared but said he didn't as he shooed her out of his study like a spider out a the window. 


	26. I Can't

_AN: I am extremely sorry for the inexcusably long hiatus. My second semester was probably the worst in my life for many different reasons. Now, however, I hope I can update much more frequently. To answer some questions..._

_My original idea for the story was to have Sherlock be the one married to Ann Marie. Eventually, however, I came to realize that there were far too few stories about the elder Holmes brother and settled on using Mycroft. Would he have taken the offer? Perhaps. But he would not have liked it._

_My interest in an at-first-chaste marriage with such an age gap began with me hearing the soundtrack to "A Little Night Music", the musical adaptation of "Smiles of a Summer Night"._

**I Can't**

The girl was not at dinner, and without her light conversation and watchful eyes, Mycroft found himself eating more than he should have. Stomach aching mildly, he ascended the stairs and opened the bedroom door.

He found her sitting on the bed, her eyes red and her face freshly tear-streaked. Her bottom lip was quivering. He had forgotten how delicate some women could be.

"Ann," he sighed, sinking onto the bed and kissing her wet cheek. "I am sorry."

"Why don't you want me?" she questioned, eyes pleading pitifully with him.

"I do want you," whispered Mycroft as he stroked her hair back. "But I can't."


	27. Breaking the Rules

_AN: I can't describe how great it feels to be welcomed back after I left you hanging for so long! Right now, Mycroft is caught between a rock and a hard place; he is very attracted to Ann Marie (with good reason; she's quite a looker, if not as dumb as a brick) and he is her husband, but on the other hand she's still mostly a child in his eyes and she's quite afraid. Needless to say, Sherlock isn't out to make his brother's life easier. We'll see what happens!_

**Breaking the Rules**

The normally quiet atmosphere in the Diogene's Club was broken when one of its founding members in the Visitor's Room all but screamed "_What_!"

"We have to do this, Mycroft," Sherlock stated, eerily calm. He was standing straight-backed before his brother, drawing himself up to his full, impressive height. "It is the only way we will have any chance at solving the case."

"It's _illegal_, Sherlock! If you get caught..."

"We plan not to be. Besides, the police will clear us of all charges when we bring him to justice."

"This is breaking and entering!"

"This is my job."

"I know, and that worries me deeply."


	28. Innocence

**Innocence**

The girl was seventeen. She had not chosen to marry him. He had no right to take such a thing away from her. But this time he knew he would find no comfort in food or in drink, so she asked her to go to the bedroom they had shared for the last four months.

"You've changed your mind." Her statement was neither positive or negative, though she looked pale.

He kissed her forehead, trying to repress the wave of guilt that was washing over him as he fumbled with the ribbon of her dress.

She gave a smile, sweet but nervous. "I am your wife."

The ribbons at last gave way, and he started to tangle with the laces of her corset. "You are a child…"

The girl began to unbutton his shirt. Her hands were shaking. "I am yours."


	29. Eyes

**Eyes**

Ann Marie could not help but marvel at the colour of her husband's eyes. They were a stunning shade of grey, identical to his brother's. He had mentioned once they came from his mother's side.

But Sherlock's eyes were always so cold, so… stern. Mycroft's were always warm and gentle. Ungrudging. At times, almost tender.

They were the sort of eyes she imagined a prince would have.

"Did I hurt you?" Mycroft murmured, his tones laden with concern.

She could not bring herself to lie to him and admitted "A little." before closing her eyes and moving closer to him.


	30. Traps

**Traps**

Women were vipers.

Mycroft knew this, and he knew it well. He almost envied his brother for being so set against them. The only companionship he seemed to need he got from Watson, and at least the doctor had half a brain.

When the girl rolled over closer to him in the middle of the night, he did not believe her to be asleep. He knew it was a trap, a trick to draw him in. He should have edged over or pushed her away. Maybe raise his voice again, God knows that had worked well enough the first time.

He did not close the gap between them, but nor did he widen it. He was cold, and her warmth felt good.


	31. Sport

**Sport**

Mycroft had no idea why he was so flustered. It had been a perfectly innocent comment. She was a young, it meant nothing.

The girl had cajoled him into taking a walk; he had better things to do but his guilt was so great over what he was doing to her with some sense of regularity now that she managed in dragging him out the front door of the house with her words alone. They had strolled past a field where a local amateur rugby club was practising whatever silly thing it was that the game entailed.

She had cocked her head and remarked "My, how strong they look."

Rugby was nothing but a heap of tomfoolery anyway. What was the bloody point in chasing after a ball and beating one another half senseless.

There _was_ none.


	32. Puzzle

**Puzzle**

It was his day off, and while he did not usually sully his hands with the crossword in the paper he had nothing better to do, so over breakfast the overlapping squares were filled in in their entirety without so much as a single pause.

Mycroft had not noticed that the girl had been watching him rather raptly and when he had finished she rose, pecking him on the cheek. "You're so clever it's impossible, Mycroft, really."

He waved her out of the room, yet she was smiling as she left, the smile on her face one of pride to merely be married to such a man.

He allowed himself a small smirk.

Mycroft Holmes: 1 Brainless rugby players: 0


	33. Happiness

**Happiness**

Sherlock took a sip of tea, raising a brow in his brother's direction. "What on earth is wrong with you, Mycroft? You look positively happy."

"I don't make it a habit to be unhappy," he retorted, toying with his sandwich but making no move to eat it. He was getting crumbs on his cuffs. No doubt the girl would scold him for it later.

"And you're not eating. Dear god, is your virgin wife bearing the next saviour?"

"Sherlock, I believe I am inflicted with an infatuation."

This aroused his interest. "With who?"

"My wife."

Sherlock patted his brother's shoulder. "Mycroft Holmes, you are a true Englishman."


	34. Waiting

_AN: Wow, guys. One hundred reviews and well over thirteen thousand hits! Trust me, when I started this series in a notebook in a hotel room one night, I never thought it would actually do well. I chose to do a story on Mycroft because he didn't seem to be very popular, but Sherlock had better watch out because his older brother has some fans of his own! Thanks for your awesome reviews! Since the series is about a third of the way done, does this mean by Chapter 100 I'll have three hundred hits? I hope so! _

**Waiting**

Ann Marie glanced up from her needlepoint, first to the walkway and then to the clock. It was starting to get dark. Mycroft was nearly an hour late.

She returned to her sewing; she was embroidering another set of linen napkins. With Mycroft's increasing publicity within the ranks of the law enforcement officers, the need for them was growing. They had hosted one diner party already (much to Mycroft's distaste) and were planning another already.

Never be caught without linen, her mother had always said.

She glanced again to the clock. Not yet a minute had passed from when she had last checked. She was quite sure she was going to go mad waiting on him.

Then, ten minutes and two-thirds of a napkin later, Mycroft started up the walkway, and she could see he was holding something in his arms.


	35. Cat

**Cat**

"Oh, Mycroft!" squealed the girl, wrapping her arms as far around him as she could while the disoriented Siamese kitten stumbled across the table. "He's _adorable_!"

Mycroft's cheeks flushed a furious red and he pried the girl off of him, scooping up the cat and dumping it in her arms before she could hug him again. "I thought you might like something to keep you company during the day."

"I love him! He's just like an Indian princess would have! But Siamese cats are so rare in London... Where did you get him?"

"Sherlock knows some people," he said, glad to see her smile.


	36. Foreign

_AN: Anyone who hasn't seen Charles Gray in Diamonds are forever really, really ought to. I did think of his Persian cat after I wrote the chapter, and I probably will reference the role later on. And yes, poor Mycroft still isn't so keen on the more cuddly aspects of marriage... He's a Holmes, what can you expect?_

**Foreign**

The maid watched the mistress of the house laugh as she waved a length of string for the kitten to paw at. She often pitied her mistress… Such a sweet young thing forced practically at gunpoint to marry a fat, proper grump like the master.

"D'you think that cat knows English?" asked the maid. "Bein' foreign and all?"

She thought for a moment, letting her tiny companion catch the thread. "Yes, I believe so… After all, he's young. A child speaks English when raised in England no matter if they were born in Siam or anywhere else."

It made sense to her. The master was intelligent, but the mistress, she was smart.


	37. Pen and Paper

**Pen and Paper**

Mycroft glanced down at the kitten halfway through dinner. "Ann? Why is the cat black?"

She did not answer him as she toyed with her peas. "I've decided to name him Marco Polo. He's quite the little explorer. Oh, he did the most adorable thing today…"

"Is… Is that _ink_?"

The girl bit her lip. "Mycroft, remember your health… Ink pens are so cheap nowadays, and you didn't have any_ terribly _important papers on your desk… Did you?"

He jumped from his seat and hurried to his study, the girl flitting after him.


	38. Do Not Disturb

**Do Not Disturb**

He had made the girl cry again. This time he had shouted, and though it had not been at her it had been enough for her to call him a bully and run from the room in tears. And now she was at his study door once more, eyes dry but red, bearing a tray with a pot of tea and two cups on it.

"You're not really going to skin the cat, are you?" she asked, biting her lip gently as she entered.

Mycroft gave a very tired chuckle and shook his head, grateful for the cup of tea she presented him with. "There's no harm done. There papers aren't difficult, merely time consuming." He noted the great relief this brought her.

"I'm glad," she sighed, her sweet but nervous smile returning. "I shouldn't be bothering you, I know you told me not to."

He found himself smiling, adding up a column of the numbers in his head. "I could use the company."


	39. Magic

**Magic**

Mycroft looked up briefly from his paper as the girl entered the sitting room before returning to it. "I hope you had a nice time at Marjory's. Her maid's ill, is she?" Unlike his brother, he usually tried not to say things like that, but sometimes things slipped out.

Her head shot up, her brown eyes wider than usual. "How did you _do_ that?"

The man rolled his eyes, pushing the cat away with his foot when it began to use his pant leg as a substitute for a mouse. "How do you think I did it?"

She pondered for a bit, finally managing to widen her eyes further. " ... Magic?"

Mycroft repressed the strong urge to beat his head against the wall. Sherlock was right; the pretty ones were always so dense.


	40. Mirror

**Mirror**

When Watson poked his head in the newly unlocked window he nearly had a heart attack, and Holmes clamped a hand firmly over his mouth to prevent a scream.

"It's a mirror, Doctor."

As he slipped through the frame, the detective following, he found that Holmes had been right. As usual. The house was dark and Watson wished with all his heart that they were back on Baker Street sipping tea by the fire.

Suddenly, they both paused.

"Watson, did you clear your throat just now?"

"No, Holmes."

"I was afraid of that."


	41. Mischief Managed

**Mischief Managed**

"Holmes...? Holmes!" Watson was starting to panic. "Sherlock!"

"I'm right here, Doctor. I've got the documents that should put Giovanni's partner behind strong bars. Now let's get out of here, preferably quite swiftly." There was a pregnant pause. "Do you hear the dog?"

The doctor, who had been doing his best to tune out the distant and formless growling, listened. Silence. "Probably gone to sleep."

This statement was uttered two seconds before the pit bull latched onto his leg.


	42. Broken Pieces

**Broken Pieces**

The only thing harder than fighting a pit bull was fighting a pit bull in the dark. Sherlock tried to kick at the wretched thing as he helped Watson back out the window, but it was useless.

The doctor's shoulder struck the mirror on the way out, shattering the glass that had startled him so. The dog's paws were cut by the shards and the two men managed to get through the window.

Watson gave a moan. Blood was pouring from him and he held on to the world of the waking by a fine thread.

He needed a doctor, Sherlock knew that, but until they solve the case they were going to be considered criminals for breaking and entering. He was shaking too badly to do it himself. There was only one place he could go.

His strength to make it there was in his pocket.


	43. Seeing Red

**Seeing Red**

"Oh my god!" gasped the girl, clutching onto her husband before he could avoid her and hiding her face in his chest.

"Why did you bring him here!" Mycroft demanded of his younger brother as he did his best to comfort his wife though he felt sick himself. John Watson lay between them, slowly bleeding to death.

The detective's very form was trembling and his pupils were swollen. In a pinch, cocaine did not need to be injected. "She can sew cloth, she can sew him."

"No! Ann, you don't have to do this!"

Still clinging to him, she glanced back to Watson and she knew her husband was lying.


	44. Test

_AN: LA Suka - I honestly don't know if Sherlock would like Anne Marie if it was his life she saved ;)_

_Kayleigh - I'm afraid Anne Marie is many things, but bright isn't one of them. Though she has her moments (knowing when rain's coming, improv medical skills, and a few other things that are coming up), for the most part she's a bit dense, especially compared to her husband (but then, who isn't?). She's a result of too many stories where the main female character is a genius, despite the fact schooling for girls was less than amazing back then. Glad to see I'm getting some new readers!_

**Test**

So for an hour, under the instruction of the great detective, the girl used thick thread, a darning needle, and a bowl of rubbing alcohol to close up the numerous punctures and gashes. She started crying silently when he awoke and began to holler and gasp in pain, but her hands and her work remained steady.

Mycroft wanted to murder his brother. It was because of him that the doctor and his wife were in pain. The girl hung onto his words; she did not know how high on his vile drug he was. She did not even know he used.

But as he could do nothing to help, he simply settled his large body on the deacon's bench and watched his wife's pale hands stain red and wished she would stop.

Seeing her in pain made something inside him ache, as if testing him to actually care.


	45. Grey

**Grey**

When Ann finished and tied her final stitch, she looked up to see Sherlock's cold, grey eyes a little warmer. She did not recognize that it was because of a white powder that caused his pupils to widen, among other things, that was making him look half human. Without a word she rose, going to the kitchen to wash her hands.

She heard Mycroft follow her; his heavy footsteps could not be ignored. His eyes were grey but never cold.

"That was a brave thing you did, Ann," he stated softly.

"Honestly...?" admitted the blonde woman with a shaking, nervous smile. "I was trying so hard to picture him as a tablecloth that he's lucky I didn't put lilies on him."


	46. Through the Fire

**Through the Fire**

Sherlock promised his brother that both they and the bloodstains in the rug would be gone by morning, so Mycroft ascended the stairs with only his wife in mind. He had been expecting his brother to at least offer some gratitude to the woman, but he supposed not making snide comments was as much thanks as a woman could get from him.

It was not often that he forgot how young she was, and yet that night she had seemed much older. That was gone now as the girl with the golden ringlets and the white nightgown threw her arms around his neck. Mycroft was tall and she was not, so she was forced up on her tiptoes to do so.

When he wrapped his arms around her, he did not feel like a fat, middle-aged auditor with a slightly retreating hairline. He felt like a knight in shining armour.

In six months, it was the first time they'd consciously fallen asleep in each other's arms.


	47. Fairy Tale

_AN: This chapter was one of the first I wrote, and dates back to when I was considering making this a crossover with "A Great and Terrible Beauty". The plot was to be that Pippa actually did marry the middle-aged banker who turned out to be, you can guess, Mr. Holmes._

_Also, in reguards to Sherlock's hatred of Ann Marie... Mycroft is merely assuming Sherlock dislikes her because she is female, while, in, truth, Sherlock's jealous of her. Think about it; before, Mycroft was always easy to find, and now his time is taken up with something his brother cannot control. I wouldn't say he hates her, he merely hates her presence in her brother's life, and therefore is snubbing her. A bit childish, of course, but his brother having a wife was never something he planned for._

**Fairy Tale**

It had been a week. The blood had come out of the rug beautifully.

"Too bad you didn't get his brother," giggled Fiona, twisting a strand of red-brown hair around her finger. The three girls now gathered in the sitting room had been best friends at Spence's Academy for Young Women.

Ann Marie pulled a face. "Sherlock? He may get a lot of publicity, but he's not all that handsome. His nose is nothing short of a disaster."

"He's got to be more handsome than his brother," Catherine drawled, the more mature and subdued of the trio. "Father says he's fat."

"Mycroft is very handsome!" protested the blonde in defence of her husband. "But just not in a fairy tale prince sort of way. In a distinguished baker sort of way."

This only prompted more giggles from Fiona.


	48. Illusion

_AN: I'd really appreciate it if the reviews would keep from arguing with each other in their reviews. I value all criticism, especially well-written ones, and don't need people to come to my defence when someone gives it. Yes, my Sherlock is a bit out of character. At the time he snubbed Ann, he was both worried for Watson, under the influence of his drug (which makes him anti-social at best), and his brother had chosen to comfort his wife over him. And in his defence, he did clean the rug. _

_He may apologize later. A cleaned rug might be all that Ann gets. It depends how the chapters work out._

Illusion

"He must be dull, though," Catherine sighed as she silently appraised the teacup she held. At least he had money… "Being an auditor, I mean. Not to mention being in the shadow of his brother."

Her friend gave a smug smile. "I keep forgetting, you don't read John's accounts, do you?" She had never called Dr. Watson by his given name to his face, and likely never would. "Mycroft is smarter than Sherlock."

"Then why is he tallying numbers?" she challenged.

"He doesn't, that's just to make a smokescreen. An illusion. He's really a consultant for Her Royal Majesty's services!"

"Oh, he is not!"

"He is so! But don't tell anyone, it's a bit of a secret. He's the most clever man in all of England!"

This, as expected, impressed even Catherine.


	49. No Way Out

**No Way Out**

The girl rose, kissing him on the cheek and holding his arm possessively. He felt like he was being marked as her territory. "Mycroft, dear, these are my friends. I've told you about them, haven't I?"

She never called him dear… But then, he had never had three practically teenage girls in his living room. "Um… Hello."

"Are you going to stay and have tea with us?" his wife continued. It wasn't as if he could say no.

The one with reddish hair giggled. "You're right, Ann Marie. He is sort of handsome. And very proper!"

Mycroft's cheeks blazed.


	50. Smile

**Smile**

"Honestly, Mycroft," sighed the girl as she looped the gold earring through her lobe. "Would it kill you to smile?"

"I just spent two hours with those… _girls_," he murmured back, voice barely short of a growl as he wrestled with his cufflinks. "And now I have to spend more than that with the Lerouxs, who you _know_ I hate…" He finally gave up, holding out his wrists.

"You're overreacting," she soothed, twisting the links on for him. "And I don't know _what_ you were so embarrassed about, both of them agree you're rather handsome." A sly smile darted across her face as she turned to leave the room. "They're terribly jealous of me, you know, to have married such a prominent man."

Mycroft frowned after her as she left, but once she was gone turned his gaze to the mirror, giving an experimental smile. Heavy, to be sure… But he _did_ carry it well, and his nose _was_ much more refined than Sherlock's…


	51. Food

**Food**

They had not finished the soup yet when Mr. Leroux launched into what sounded like a rehearsed speech about how the Jews were ruining the county and just what needed to be done with them. Mycroft, as well as the other guests, seemed to know better than to stop him. After all, the long knife used to carve the meat was sitting beside him.

Unlike the girl, who had been trained in etiquette and was able to shrug off mere talk, Mycroft could not hold his tongue against such unless his mouth was full. While she sat and pretended to listen to their host while really plotting out a embroidery pattern in her mind, he put away more than he meant to.

"You're going to give yourself a stomach ache," she warned in a soft whisper.

"I am not."


	52. Starvation

_AN: Dannyu-chan- I very nearly couldn't write this story because for the longest time, thanks to a "friend", whenever I thought of Mycroft I'd think of Watson's description of his hands and the age-old saying about the size of a man's hands. XD_

**Starvation**

"I swear before my maker that I will never eat again," Mycroft groaned, forcing down the glass of warm water and bicarbonate.

"Oh, Mycroft," soothed the girl, ever at his side, rubbing his shoulder with one hand and his aching stomach with the other. "Mr. Leroux shouldn't have said all those things."

"I mean it, Ann, from now on I will function solely on roots, grass, and water!"

The next morning when the girl joined him at the table, Mycroft was cutting up a sausage, and glared at her when she asked "Pass the roots, will you?"


	53. Pain

**Pain**

"Is it real…?"

"It's obviously real," responded Mycroft as he scanned the letter. "I'm holding it in my hand, aren't I?"

"You know what I mean," she sighed, exasperated.

"Did he write it, you mean?" The ink was one that he knew his brother to use, the pen nub worn so it was not simply a case of someone buying a similar style. The hand was correct and the doctor, the most likely forger for his sympathy for Ann, was right-handed. The varying pressure the pen was held suggested the lopsided posture his brother often took when writing a personal letter, suggesting the doctor had not had to twist his ear off or cause him pain in some other way to force him to right it. No blood on it, either. Besides, the handwriting was too atrocious for a sane man to duplicate. He often suspected that this was its purpose.

"It's real," he finally said. "Sherlock wrote it." He raised an eyebrow when the girl took it back, heading upstairs. "Where are you going?"

"To put this somewhere safe. There will be another day when Sherlock is at me, and I want to be able to remind myself that he is eventually capable of emotion."


	54. Kick in the Head

_AN: The Mediocre Gatsby: Love the name. A lot. Some of these drabbles aren't entirely supposed to make sense. Drowning is a prime example of a snippet of text that leaves a lot to the reader's imagination. No doubt he's being brilliant, only in a way that gets him and Watson rather damp. And yes, Ann Marie and her friends are rather young. Not an entirely uncommon occurrence in Victorian times for young girls to wed, as many finishing schools only went until seventeen. I enjoy critique, so never feel it's unwanted._

_Evita the Akita: Again, love the name. Sherlock is coming back in the very next chapter, as a matter of fact._

_Pompey: No doubt Watson already expressed his gratitude to Ann in a most personal way than a letter. Has Watson ever been rude, especially to a woman? ;)_

_And to all who asked, it's up to you what's on the letter, but in my mind, it's a thank you in the stiffest, most formal way Sherlock can manage it._

**Kick in the Head**

He had made the girl cry without saying a word.

"Ann, really. It's not that bad," he tried to comfort as she dabbed as the gash at the back of his head. He had been jumped returning from the Diogenes Club. He would have used the word "mugged", had his wallet not been left untouched. Odd, to say the least.

"It _is_ that bad!" insisted the girl, wiping at her eyes as she attended to him. "You could have been _killed_, Mycroft! Oh, I just know this has something to do with Sherlock and his blasted case…"

"You don't know that," he chided, ignoring the fact that he'd be lucky if he could move the next morning. He did not know either, but he was fairly damn sure. He leaned forward to kiss her head and in doing so gave a gasp of pain.

The girl burst into fresh tears.


	55. Obsession

_AN: Completely forgot an AN when I first posted this, so it's going in now. I really, really have to watch which words I use if I know they're dated (teenage is one, and I'm sure there are probably a few others). I've done it before in historical fiction, and I'm likely to do it again. So please... Bear with me. That doesn't mean you can't correct me, of course. Now, speaking of which, I should probably rewrite that chapter where Mycroft fixes Sherlock's iPod..._

**Obsession**

"Holmes…?" Watson inquired almost timidly.

The lean man had been brooding in his chair for several hours, his head leaned back, eyes closed as if enjoying the throes of a drug-induced pleasure and yet when he opened his eyes, it was the watery stare that always implied deep, deep thought.

"Mycroft was attacked at six forty three tonight, Watson. He knows the minute because his pocket watch broke."

The doctor's brow shot up. "It might have just been a random mugging…"

"They took nothing from him. This has Giovanni's fingerprints all over it. If you remember, he's been mad ever since we put away his right-hand man."

Watson did remember. His leg still ached. "He does not risk the publicity of attacking, so he attacks your brother."

Holmes nodded slowly, gazing into the fire. "And eventually his wife… That's where my plan begins, Watson."


	56. All That I Have

**All That I Have**

"No," Mycroft stated. His hands were clenched into slightly shaking fists. "Sherlock, _no_! I won't allow…"

"Giovanni will kill you next time," interrupted Sherlock, his eyes fixed on his brother. Though he said nothing about it, seeing him bruised and cut for his own career pained him. His face remained as unfeeling and cold as stone. "And then he will kill the girl."

"Sherlock, she isn't some doll for you to dress up!" he roared, rising to his feet. "You want to risk her life, to say nothing of her dignity, for your damned case! I can't ask her to do that!"

"You _can_. You are her husband, she'll obey any command you give and she'll do anything if she thinks it's to help you. You will _not_." Silence. Then… "You _love_ her." It was an accusation.

"She's all I have, Sherlock."

He looked up once more to his brother in surprise. His intelligence, his pride… His _life_. "My God, you _do _love her."


	57. Sixty Seven Percent

**Sixty-Seven Percent**

"Ann, I beg of you, don't do this."

She was staring at her hands, willing herself not to tremble. Not in front of Sherlock; he had enough reasons to critize her without her falling to pieces. She could feel her husband's hands on her shoulders but they brought little comfort. "Mycroft, if I don't then this man may have you killed. You're my husband, I cannot just stand by."

"Ann…" His brilliant mind was failing him.

"You're making the right choice," Sherlock replied with a solemn nod. "The odds are in our favour. Factoring in what I know of Giovanni… The chance that this will go off completely without a hitch are sixty-seven percent."

"Fairly good odds," she murmured, gaze still on the floor. _For him… Do it for him._


	58. Tower

**Tower**

Ann Marie wanted to curl up and die. She was cold, she was in a dress that barely covered her and far more makeup than a lady should ever wear, and in a matter of minutes she was to go downstairs and seduce the man who wanted to kill her husband.

"I'll be in the closet the entire time," Sherlock said as he loaded, checked, and double-checked his revolver. Watson had refused to come. "There is little to worry about."

She felt like Rapunzel trapped in her tower. She wanted her prince.

"You need to go now." His voice sounded tinny and odd. She didn't expect any words of comfort, but he hesitantly added "Best of luck."

She gave a brief nod, rising as if in a trance.


	59. Drink

_AN: This little saga really says a lot about our players. Mycroft's trust for his brother and his respect for Ann in letting her make the choice, Ann's devotion to Mycroft to the point of putting herself in danger, Sherlock's dedication to putting away a criminal, and Watson's gentlemanly nature for not wanting to participate in a scheme that takes advantage of both Ann Marie's body and loyalty to her husband._

**Drink**

Giovanni grinned, downing his glass and grabbing the pretty young thing around the waist. "So blonde…" he slurred, fingering her ringlets. "A little doll, 's what you are, girlie."

"Come," she said, smile nervous but coy, the smile of a whore in white virgin's robes. "I have a room upstairs."

He followed. Her skin was smooth under his calloused palms, and he heard small noises of pleasure where others would have heard cries of pain. He did not mind bruising her for dolls could be fixed. If not, they could be thrown away.


	60. Rated

**Rated**

"I daresay that the papers aren't going to be buying this one off of Watson."

The inn room could not have been more unpleasant. Giovanni was clutching his upper leg and swearing in a slurred voice. He was thrashing about, sending blood splattering every which way.

The girl looked to Sherlock, wide eyes pulsing out a steady stream of tears. Some of the blood was on her cheek, covering up the rouge she had so detested putting on. The front of her dress was torn and she tried, mostly in vain, to keep herself covered. She had not been taken, but it had been close.

"No," Sherlock continued, looking away for his sister-in-law's sake and tossing her his jacket. "This may just be rated a bit too high for the general public."


	61. Heal

_AN: My apologies in advance for the shameless angsty fluff..._

**Heal**

Mycroft had never hated his brother, or himself, more than when he brought the girl home. Sherlock must have sensed his hatred for he stayed less than a minute before all but fleeing

His kissed her forehead and stroked her hair, left her alone while she changed, held her tightly as he rarely felt comfortable doing when they lay down on the bed… While she was not crying anymore, she was close to it, and the only thing he could think to do was hold her.

Mycroft could neither thank her nor apologize. He could not tell her just how much what she had done had meant, not only to him but to all the people Giovanni had harmed in every imaginable way. And he certainly could not bring himself to utter three stupid but meaningful words that may very well have healed her or hurt her.

And so he just held her close, and she fell asleep curled tightly against him with her head on his stomach.


	62. Precious Treasure

_AN: It isn't my intention to make Holmes a baddie in this story. Ann Marie's personal arch nemesis, perhaps... Also, tomorrow there will be a Halloween special posted by me. Ann Marie will be in it. As will a ghost. Sort of. Check it out!_

**Precious Treasure**

The next morning, it was if nothing had happened.

Though her eyes were dark underneath, the girl gave no indication as to what she had been through the night before. She sat there, as beautiful as ever, and chatted on about how on the next day he had off they should go to the zoo together if the weather was nice.

Mycroft has expected to see some sort of change, some trace or some sign that her innocence was gone. He had looked for the same clues the night after they had first been together and he found the same thing now as he did then; nothing.

Perhaps it had been foolish of him to think that he was powerful enough to take that somewhat dull but wonderfully naive spark out of her eye. He nor Giovanni nor anyone else save for time could do that.


	63. Triangle

**Triangle**

"Mycroft, just check one of the maps. I won't think any less of you."

The girl had finally succeeded in convincing him to go to the zoo with her. He had known it would only be a matter of time. Though he had lived in London since his university days, he had never bothered to go.

Somehow, they had become trapped in the botanical gardens.

"For the last time, Ann, I know where we're going. Just up past the eucalypts…"

"I hate to disagree with you, you know that, but we've passed the bleeding hearts twice. We've gone around in a circle."

"These paths are straight-edged., we've gone around in a square. At least a triangle."


	64. Family

**Family**

Ann Marie didn't think about her family much. Where they were, what had happened to them… She had tired to get their new address but had little luck, and didn't deem it important enough to ask Mycroft to look into the matter. She kept her mother's advice close to heart, of course, and she was grateful her father had secured her this option as opposed to the other one, but once she was married her family was… obsolete.

"Mycroft, look," she laughed, pointing through the cast iron bars into the miniature jungle. One of the monkeys, she couldn't place the exact kind, was chasing after a youth, finally catching it and scooping it up. "Look at them… Don't they seem almost human?"

"According to some theories, we share common ancestors with them," commented Mycroft. He was having fun despite himself.

Though it wasn't entirely proper, even for a married couple, she took his hand in hers. "Come, let's go see the lions!"


	65. Stripes

_AN: Urg, this one is far too long but I couldn't bring myself to cut it down. Thanks for the wonderful reviews and patience with my updating._

**Stripes**

"Girl."

Ann Marie continued to rinse the teapot. "I have a name, Sherlock."

"I know, but first names imply affection and it annoys you when I call you sister dear."

She did not bother pointing out that if his statement was true he held not affection for the man who had risked his life for his so many times over. She knew the truth for Mycroft had whispered it into her ear; Sherlock would die for Watson but he would rather die than admit that. "The tea will be about fifteen minutes."

There was a sole reason he had accepted their token dinner invitation and he meant to go through with it. "Thank you for what you did. For my case. It… took bravery I did not believe you possessed. But," he added quickly. "Do not think this means I will treat you any differently."

"Of course not, Sherlock. I do not expect a leopard to change its stripes."

He waited for her to catch her slip and when she did not he left the kitchen. Bravery did not always need intelligence. Sometimes it worked better when it did not have it perhaps.


	66. Are You Challenging Me?

**Are You Challenging Me?**

"Mr. Holmes, we've got a challenge for you."

"No you do not," Mycroft replied with a complete lack of lustre, not so much as sparing a glance to the younger man. "Make it quick, my wife is expecting me."

Reg Janii had seen his wife and had to admit that he would be eager to get home to her as well. "A convoy of ships was pirated near the East Indies. They say they've got the son of a duke hostage but we don't know how to prove it's the duke's ship they got. The names were well-known, they could be lying."

"Simple," sighed the rotund man as he slipped on his coat. "Ask what the ship's cargo was. That's only known to our side."

"Sir, that's the problem. The records burnt in that fire down at Wellington. _We_ don't know what the cargo was."


	67. Teamwork

**Teamwork**

Watson had slowly drifted off roughly an hour ago. Mycroft had ordered Ann Marie to go to bed like a father sending a child off to sleep but in rare (though well-meant) defiance she stayed up to keep the much-needed stream of caffeine trickling into the sitting room.

"You know," the girl suggested as she straightened up the growing stack of papers the Holmes brothers had deemed useless. "I think it's orange pekoe tea."

Sherlock threw his arms up in mock celebration. "The girl's got it! What a miracle!"

"Shut up and let her speak, Sherlock," sighed Mycroft, glaring at his brother. His normally even temper was being planed down. "It isn't as if you've had an idea in the last six hours."


	68. Advertisment

**Advertisement**

"Well…" Ann Marie began, nervous now that all three men were staring at her. Sherlock had shaken Watson awake. "You know how when there's less of something the price goes up?"

"Supply and demand?" her husband offered, shoving Marco Polo off the arm of his chair.

"Yes, that's it! They taught us about that in school so we'd know the value of silks and the like, and why certain vegetables are more expensive in the winter. Anyway, I was looking in the social section of the newspaper a few days ago and there was a notice that orange pekoe tea had gone up by a third. And just now I was thinking… Maybe it's supply and demand? I mean, if a whole convoy of their ships were taken…"

Sherlock rose, his icy eyes fixed on her for what seemed like an eternity in Ann Marie's mind. As easily as she could read Mycroft's face his brother's was a blank slate.

He finally turned on his heel, her back to her. "Mycroft, where do you keep a pistol? My life is no longer worth living."

"In the study. Help yourself."


	69. In the Storm

_AN: Afraid that the new chapter of "Go Ask Mrs. Holmes" will not be up until next Friday as NaNoWriMo is coming right down to the wire, sot here's another week to get questions in!_

**In the Storm**

"I think I like this better than a fancy dinner," the girl giggled softly, making herself comfortable against him.

It was her birthday; she was now eighteen years old and a wife by nine months. Mycroft had booked them a table at the most exclusive restaurant in the city but a freak October snowstorm that not even the girl had predicted had brought the city to an extremely white standstill.

But it was not all so bad. With the maid off for the night the girl had made French toast, sausage and eggs and had brought the white wine in the good champagne flutes. Mycroft had lit a fire in the sitting room and laid a quilt over the couch. She had seemed more delighted with him wrapping an arm around her waist than the diamond bracelet he had bought her.

Mycroft kissed her forehead as she leaned against his shoulder. _God bless the two pair, queens high._


	70. Questioning

**Questioning**

"Ann?" Mycroft questioned, glancing back from where he stood in front of the mirror. "Tell the truth. Do you ever wish you'd married someone..." _Younger? Thinner? Handsomer? _"Less stern?"

The girl gave a tired smile, gesturing to the empty place beside her in the bed. Her blonde hair fell across her face, almost hiding her eyes. "You are my husband, what good would it do to wish for another one?"

He sighed, coming over and easing himself onto the bed, letting himself be pulled down onto the pillows but prodding "But do you?"

It was her turn to sigh and she lay her head down, closing her eyes. "Oh, Mycroft... I know you're a terribly important man and because of that you can come off as a bit of a grump, but... Well, you're..." Another sigh.

He frowned, sitting up a bit. "Something's troubling you?"

"Mycroft, I think I might be barren."


	71. Mother Nature

**Mother Nature**

Mycroft, in nine months of marriage, had never learned exactly what to do when his wife cried. It always made him uncomfortable because no matter the reason he always felt like he had hurt her.

"Calm down," he ventured, risking a hand on her side. "Ann, we've only... been sharing less of the bed, so to speak, for about three months. And besides that, you're still young, sometimes things are still... settling, at your age."

"What if I'm broken?" whispered the blonde, burying her face in the pillow and ignoring his touch.

"If, and I mean _if_, that's true... There are options. Just please don't cry, Ann. I don't care."

"I know," she murmured. "But... It makes me feel useless."

"I never intended to use you."


	72. Two Roads

**Two Roads**

The head of Her Royal Majesty's service at Whitehall had two choices regarding Mr. Mycroft Holmes; continue promoting him or leave him in the shadows.

He chose the first. With the letter of promotion, Mycroft found a pair of tickets to the opening night of the opera "The H.M.S. Pinafore". He had not wanted to go in the slightest but the girl had only needed to bat her eyelashes.

Thomas Dorsey had to admit that he was curious to see what kind of woman would hold the fancy of a man like Mr. Holmes. He pictured a seasoned lady, his own age, somewhat heavy and dark of hair but extremely sharp of mind.

When they joined Dorsey and his wife in the box, he was surprised to see a wasp-waisted blonde thing young enough to be his daughter on his arm, and when Mrs. Dorsey questioned her on her bracelet and was told the story of the girl's recent eighteenth(!) birthday, he was even more surprised at the tones of affection he heard.


	73. Sacrifice

**Sacrifice**

"A promotion..." grumbled Mycroft as soon as they were behind the oaken door of their bedroom, tossing his jacket over the bureau. "A token gesture so that they can show off the fact that I am working for them and not privately. I'm to sacrifice my anonymity for Dorsey's pride. He's _vain_."

"_You're_ moody," the girl sighed with a faint smile, failing with the strings of her corset. "Help? The opera was nice."

"Thin satire." He saw her grimace at his very touch and hurried with the lacing. "Too tight, Ann... You'll break your ribs."

"For beauty." To be beautiful for him was worth the cost of an aching chest and ribs. Once shedding the top of the gown and the corset, she skulked over to join her husband on the bed. "They should be proud of you. You're brilliant."

"And you're..." His words were ceased when their lips brushed and he took her weight, his large hands on her tiny hips. "Well, you're you. And no one puts you on a pedestal."

"You always do," she replied in a silken murmur.


	74. Deep in Thought

_AN: Sorry for slow updates over the holidays! If the chapters have been a little dark as of late, I'd recommend "Divide and Concur" by Formatted Insanity to put a smile back on your face. Cheers as "The Girl" heads into its second and final year!_

**Deep in Thought**

Ann Marie had never been particularly close to Emily Francis, she was a friend of a friend, but when she had heard the new of her mugging it had disturbed her. She had often worried about her, a lady only her own age living all on her own... Ann Marie hated to be alone more than anything else.

Lying in bed with her husband, she could not help but wonder what on earth would have become of her if it were not for his generosity. She didn't have Emily's brains; she would be some wretched creature of the night, bowing to her father's whim.

"Something troubling you...?" Mycroft murmured, almost asleep but still acute. She was due to bleed in a week, she was usually most optimistic at this time.

"Nothing." He had enough to worry about without her silly musings. She was grateful for his soft, warm form to ward off the chill. Her father had been a kind man at one point in her life. Her own children would be able to say their father had been a kind man at every point in their life.


	75. Dark

_AN: Afraid "Go Ask Mrs. Holmes" will not update this week; a shortage of questions but mostly a shortage of time. On the up side, I am currently wrestling down a plot bunny that should give fruit soon. Can you say Holmes/Sweeney Todd crossover?_

**Dark**

"Holmes, I really think you should apologize to Mrs. Hudson." Though he loved their landlady dearly, Watson had to admit that she scared him at times. Who knew a woman could be so fond over a table?

"I've reimbursed her, she's confirmed it was of no sentimental value, what more could she want?" He seemed to miss the point entirely that the overflow of chemicals should not have happened in the first place. "Besides, what's the worst she can do? I doubt she will evict us over that after so many years."

"Please, Holmes, do remember..."

The lamps flickered and died, and in the darkness there was a curse as the great detective tripped over a footstool.

"... that our lady controls our water and gas."


	76. Sorrow

_AN: If you've ever wanted to discuss with another living person what Sherlock Holmes's inner animal is, look no further. I've made a board on the "Discussions of the Master" board. All the cool kids were doing it..._

**Sorrow**

The maid gave a sad sigh as the master made his way into the sitting room and her mistress immediately dropped what she was doing to greet him. It was simply heartbreaking, the way she fawned over him. The girl should have married a handsome young lord, not a straight-laced old bureaucrat.

Oh, the mistress put on a happy face and played his games, but the maid knew that the girl's insides were filled with sorrow. How could they not be?

She pitied her mistress with all of her being, stuck home all day with only her kitty for company while he lounged at his desk. It nearly broke her heart to see her all but hanging off him every day, starved for even his attention, fussing over him as if she were truly happy to be wed to _him_.

And what did he do when she mustered up her will to kiss his fleshy cheek? He blushed and told her to stop!


	77. Tears

**Tears**

Ann Marie blinked when he handed her his jacket sleeve-first when he came in the door. "If this is another one of those deduction lessons, I've told you before that I quit."

"And I already promised to drop the subject. I need you to mend it. See?" He turned the sleeve inside out, revealing tiny tears on the delicate inside lining.

She frowned, examining them. _Of course, it has to be one of his best jackets. _The outer layer had been left entirely untouched. "I can, but... How on earth did only the inside get ripped?"

"How do you think it would?" Her glare was enough for him not to wait for an answer. "Believe me when I say you don't want to know. In summary, the folks down in Weapons Development have a new toy."

He was right, as always. She didn't want to know. She went to get some thread.


	78. Words

**Words**

Sherlock glared down at the paper. The game, in principal, was simple; start with a word and then the next person had to make another word using the last two letters, and then the next would do the same. With a pair of geniuses, however, the game often became complicated. Especially because they used the last three letters.

"Mycroft, stop cheating!" insisted the detective, frowning at the latest offering his brother had made from "nadir". "Dirndl is not a real word."

"It most certainly is," was his ever-placid reply, although he was smirking ever so slightly. "It is the traditional costume of an Alpine peasant girl."

With a sigh, Watson went to fetch the dictionary. He had a sneaking suspicion that the younger brother was about to be proven wrong.


	79. Memory

**Memory**

Fifteen-year-old Sherrinford Holmes swung off his horse with ease, nearly shaking in his riding boots as he hurried towards his cousin's form. His aunt and uncle were going to kill him if he was hurt, especially since he was the good son. "You alright, Myke?"

He was too busy spitting out mud to resent the much-loathed nickname only his cousin used. "Do I _look_ alright? If not for the heavy peat deposits in this area, I'd have broken most my ribs!"

"Doubt it," grinned the older boy now that he was fairly sure he was not going to have to lug a corpse back over his saddle. He grabbed the reins of Mycroft's spooked mount. "You've got enough padding to cushion the blow. Did you hit your head?"

"Firstly, sod off. Secondly, yes." When he probed his temple, he drew back blood and wrinkled his nose in disgust.

"Ah, well. You can afford the drop in intelligence."


	80. Vacation

**Vacation**

"I swear before my Maker, I am going to kill Sherlock with my bare hands."

Ann Marie, usually the epitome of patience, had heard him say that at least thrice in the same evening and could not help but sigh as she helped the maid pack. "Mycroft, please, you'll give yourself a stroke. There are worse things in the world than a paid vacation."

He was currently fuming behind a mass of papers from Whitehall, all of them suggesting what he did not want to hear. "This is not a vacation, Ann, this is being forced into hiding until Scotland Yard gets around to doing their jobs because my dim-witted brother had to go and throw a rock at a hornet's nest."

She suspected that her husband was the only man in the world qualified to call Sherlock Holmes dim-witted. She kissed him on the cheek, which rarely failed to at least soothe his temper. "But the seaside will be such a welcome change from cold, damp London."

"It is November, Ann. It is cold and damp everywhere north of Africa."


	81. Dying

**Dying**

Mycroft Holmes was dying a slow and painful death. The cause? _The HMS Pinafore_.

He normally found train trips to be rather soothing, but he usually made them alone and without a brother who, with nothing better to occupy his time with, seemed to wish to drive him insane before they reached Dover.

His memory could be a curse sometimes. All it took was a few hummed lined of that blasted excuse for an opera to get the annoying but memorable tune wedged firmly in his head.

I am the monarch of the sea, the ruler of the Queen's navy. My praise Great Britain loudly chants...

His wife could not help but smile as she attempted to busy herself with her sewing. "And we are his sisters and his cousins and his aunts..."

"_Ann_!"


	82. Drive

**Drive**

It was still half an hour by carriage to the hotel, and the lifespan of Sherlock Holmes was growing shorter each time he drummed his boney fingers on the side of the door. He had been doing it the last ten minutes, expression neutral as his brother's glare began to all but melt the glass in the windows.

"Sherlock, _stop that_!"

"Stop what?" he inquired with complete innocence, not missing a single beat.

"Mycroft, please, we don't have that far now, couldn't you just..."

"You know very well what I mean! One would swear that you're three years old, and..."

Ann Marie sighed, giving up any attempts at diffusing the situation now that the voices were starting to rise. "One pities their poor mother."

Watson gave an agreeing, sympathetic sigh. "Mrs. Holmes, I wish you nothing but daughters."


	83. Night

**Night**

"Oh, Mycroft, look at the stars!"

Watson had to admit, circumstances aside, that this was better than London. One never saw the stars half so clear through a layer of smog. They had taken a carriage to a local restaurant for dinner but the night was rather warm for November and so they had voted to walk back. Mycroft did not think much of democracy at the moment.

Still, the doctor believed that the man had been happier in the last ten months then he had ever seen him before. Even while being forced to walk, there was a slight smile on his face as the girl attached herself firmly to his arm although an absence of ice meant she was not likely to slip and the large man brushed a stray ringlet away from her face with a gentleness one would not think him to possess.

"We are five minutes from the hotel, can you two not wait to display affection?" muttered Holmes with a roll of his steel eyes, sounding very much like a younger brother.


	84. Solitude

Solitude

Holmes circled his wrist, making the glass of brandy slide about the bar top. The motion was one that, more vertical, would be identical to a bowing hand. He wished he had brought his violin or his drug.

Mycroft had stayed for one drink, which he had not even taken half of, before excusing himself in the middle of a deduction game to his room because "Ann would be lonely."

Feh.

Watson was caught between being amused and feeling sympathetic towards his friend. "I believe it to be a good thing your brother found a companion, Holmes. No man is an island."

For a rare instance, Holmes's mouth operated before his mind and he came out with an indignant "I..." before pausing and realizing. He tilted his head towards Watson, a thin, wry smile his only acknowledgement to the man who saved him from entire hermithood before nodding towards a group of men at the end of the hotel bar. "See those labourers there, Watson? Why don't we have a bit of fun?"

The doctor sighed. He was no master of deduction, but he had a feeling he was not going to enjoy the fun.


	85. Safety First

_AN: My apologies in advance for this chapter, especially to Holmes's fangirls._

**Safety First**

Holmes had spent the last twenty minutes convincing a group of labourers he had the ability to communicate with spirits before revealing himself as the Great Detective. They were hardly being sports about it; they seemed more interested in seeking revenge for making them look like fools than learning how it was done.

Faithful Watson had grabbed one by the collar but that still left two that Holmes had to outrun. He was fairly sure he had lost them in the branching hallways but he knew better than to let down his guard. His brother's room was closer than his own and he had inspected the locks beforehand to find out that they would be opened with the bit of metal he always carried and three simple movements of the wrist, which he did with the speed of the panicked.

What he found reminded him of the well-known painting of Cain and Abel by Franz Floris; it was not the actual act, but far enough into the prelude to tell what the act would eventually be. Come to think of it, the positioning was a bit similar.

The girl's hands were on his shoulders, back arched and mostly exposed save for her corset. Her golden hair was loose, her innermost skirt still on. She all but lay on his large form, forehead almost touching his, as he began on his shirt's buttons, collar already discarded. Sufficently distracted, neither heard the door.

"Sister mine," spoke Holmes, his voice almost eerily calm. "I see you took my advice."

A pair of heads whipped around, and a heavy brass ash tray was quickly sent hurtling towards his head, hitting the wall.

"Missed me, brother." He fled twice, running into the doorframe the first time and making it out the second time, making for his own room clutching his now ringing head. _Ann would be lonely, indeed..._


	86. Stars

Stars

Holmes could not help but sigh as he gazed out the window at the vast tapestry of light spread out before him. They were slightly blurry.

"Here," Watson proclaimed as he entered the room, striding over to his friend and pressing the ice encased in cloth onto the bump forming on his forehead. The doctor had gotten off easily in the fight with only a few bruises; the one he had grabbed had been the smallest of the three. "You really do need to learn how to knock."

"I was hardly expecting _that_," he spat back, taking the cloth and putting tender pressure on the injury.

"They _are_ married, Holmes. There's no shame in it."

His only response was an irritable mutter, his attention once more on the stars. He found them a much more appealing image than the memory of the girl mere steps away from complete indecency.

At breakfast the next morning, no one mentioned anything to imply the event had ever occurred, and all four were grateful for that.


	87. Relaxation

**Relaxation**

Mycroft had to admit it; the hotel was first rate, and Dover was a nice break from London. He did not forgive his brother for being so careless, but he still smiled as he and the girl braved the wind, kept at bay easily with warm coats, to walk along the beach under the famed white cliffs. The gusts had ruled out any possibility for a hat and her golden hair was being blown about, much to her annoyance and his amusement.

Although he was supposed to be relaxing (as par the girl's orders), his thoughts still troubled him. They were not on wars or conflicts, but on something just as sensitive.

How did one go about telling ones wife they loved them?

Was it even needed? The girl knew he enjoyed her company; was that enough? He had considered asking Watson for advice but decided against it. The doctor had loved his wife before they had married and their marriage had been a celebration of their love.

His and the girl's had been to settle a debt, for god's sake.


	88. Spiral

**Spiral**

Watson hurried up the spiral staircase of the lobby, a telegram clutched in his hand and a smile on his face. Scotland Yard had apprehended the ringleaders of the criminal organization and disbanded the gang in a week and a half, quite possibly a new record for them. London was once again for him and the Holmes'.

It was still off to think of Ann Marie as a Holmes

He made a mental note as he spared a glance at the beautiful wrought iron work of art to ask that the poor girl see her doctor upon returning home.

It was likely nothing serious, but she had looked dreadful the day before and had been too sick to take breakfast that morning, and if Mycroft had worried so then with a fever, Watson would hate to see him now with a case of the flu.

The doctor paused once more, but this time in thought. He restrained a smile at the prospect of the possible. _Mrs. Holmes may have gotten her wish._


	89. Trouble Lurking

**Trouble Lurking**

His time in solitude, separated from his kind mistress, had hardened his spirit and made him all the more diligent to keep her cosseted from the Evils That Were.

The mighty warrior sidled along the treacherous oak ridge, finely-tuned ears detecting the sleep breathing of the mighty creature who had stolen off his beautiful one and had left his domain empty for a span far too long. Exhausted, from his evil deeds no doubt, he would not even hear the pugilist's approach.

Finally, he could see him. As tall and broad as a mountain, a suicidal opponent for even the mightiest of fighters, but he knew what had to be done. His blue eyes narrowed and every muscle in his body bunched as he prepared to strike... He was about to launch himself into battle when he found himself being lifted up into the air and off the mantle from where he had been watching the master dozing in his armchair.

The blonde girl stroked his head, evoking a purr from the Siamese cat despite his deadly intentions. "I know you're mad at being left home, Marco Polo, but Mycroft's exhausted from catching up at Whitehall and I won't let you disturb him."

At his mistress's command, he relaxed in her grasp. Her orders were his to follow. The battle would have to wait another day.


	90. Rainbow

AN: If you're interested, go check out the new collaboration between myself and KCS, "What Words Fail Of". "The Girl" is winding down, but rest assured now there will be a sequel.

Rainbow

Mycroft knew it was going to be a rather grey day when he woke up and tossed back the curtains. It was raining buckets, for one thing. And the girl was still not well; she had been up before him for once and had only just emerged from the water closet looking practically grey.

"Are you sure you don't want me to stay home...?" he questioned, touching her forehead but feeling no fever. "I can put off all that work for one day."

"Don't even say that. They need you at Whitehall. I have the maid with me, and Dr. Watson is accompanying me to an appointment this afternoon."

He sighed, although it was with reluctance. "As long as you're sure..." He glanced out the open window, smiling faintly and pointing. "A rainbow... The second best thing I've seen today after you."

"Mycroft, you know I adore you, but please leave the romantic speech to the poets. They do it a bit better."


	91. Keeping a Secret

**Keeping a Secret**

Watson browsed aimlessly through the ancient periodical, mind entirely elsewhere. He had known Dr. Elsi professionally for a good number of years and had even seen patients for him when he had taken holidays or was ill. Now he was trying to recall if he had ever treated Mrs. Holmes without even realizing it.

He doubted it; as Holmes would always point out, he had a good memory for pretty women. But then, back then she hardly would have been a woman and therefore he would not have seen her as such... His thoughts on the matter were driven back when the door of the examination room opened and the girl emerged. He stood upon seeing the look on her face.

To his eternal surprise, she threw her arms around him, unable to contain her emotions. "You were right. Mycroft was right. I'm entirely and perfectly daft."

Watson laughed as she released him. "Congratulations! Are you going to stop by Whitehall?"

She withdrew slightly at this. "Oh, no... I'm going to wait until the right moment to... Well. Please, don't tell him or Sherlock?"

"Not a word will escape from my mouth, but you'd best tell Mycroft before he figures it out himself or Holmes does the same, if he hasn't already, and tells him." Although the elder may have been the superior in intellect, the future father was still very much in the dark. After all, affection could blind the most eagle-eyed.


	92. Childhood

Childhood

Mycroft Sigerson Holmes, Senior, pinched the bridge of his nose. Before him sat his two sons, the younger rubbing at a bump on his head and his elder cradled a set of sore knuckles in his opposite hand. "Mycroft, I suggested you take an interest in Victoria Palin tonight."

"Yes, sir." The fifteen-year-old did not state that Victoria Palin was a doe-eyed, empty-headed girl with all the sense of a block of wood.

"She is currently nursing over the noble's son you chose to assault. Do you know who he was?"

"No, sir, but he had no right to shove a young child about that way."

Sherlock, eight and precocious, murmured "_Not_ a young child...", but then silenced at his father's glare.

"To your rooms, both of you. I expected better of you both, especially you, Mycroft. I believe Miss Hart has been a terrible influence on you." He would deal more thoroughly with them in the morning although he could not truly punish his son's diligence towards his young brother.

Now to go convince Lord Chaplin this was an isolated occurrence...


	93. Break Away

**Break Away**

Mycroft yawned, draining the cup of coffee. It tasted horrible, especially compared to what the girl could brew (Miss Francis was a brilliant scientific mind but everything she applied heat to, she burnt), but he needed the energy.

It was one of those days where the minutes seemed to turn to hours and the work was as dull as actual accounting. It was all Argentinean economics and researchers vying for the confirmation they needed to beg larger budgets. It bored him more than tax forms.

He really had to spend a bit of time at the Diogenes Club before heading home... He was nursing a migraine not helped by the current bicker between Janii and Dante and the girl had been too ill as of late to have to deal with his moodiness.

Besides, he had not been since he returned from Dover. The porters were beginning to give him looks and he could interpret them quite well; his schedule had been torn violently out from underneath him like a living room rug.

So why did he not mind half as much as he should?


	94. Fortitude

Fortitude

The whole blasted week had been miserable. It was cold enough to chill, but not cold enough to keep the snow from turning to dirty slush or, at the moment, the fine but frequent drops of rain to peaceful little flakes.

The girl was still ill. She had told her husband that Dr. Elsi had told her it was a bad case of the flu, but he was beginning to wonder if they should get a second opinion. It was not that Mycroft distrust Elsi, he was known as one of the best doctors in the city, but while she pulled herself together in the evenings she was nothing short of wretched when she woke up. He was starting to become very worried for her.

It wasn't really rain, Mycroft decided as he started up his walkway. It was mist. It was misting. He wasn't really wet, only damn and soggy. Umbrellas were powerless against mist.

He was glad when he reached the front door, more than welcoming the fortitude from both the rain and government affairs it would bring.


	95. Last Hope

**Last Hope**

Ann Marie knew tonight was her last chance if she was to tell him; he was starting to become distressed, and it upset her to know she was putting him through that. She was being a terrible wife.

It was not that she was afraid of his reaction, not really. Perhaps she was a little anxious that he would not be as thrilled as she was. Perhaps all those times he had said "It doesn't matter if you cannot bear.", he had been hinting that he did not want children.

Oh, but then there had been the tentative shifting through papers on adoption... Thank God he had recommended they wait longer; bringing an unfortunate child into a home at a time of such chaos would have been nothing short of cruel.

She saw him coming up the walk, clothes damp, umbrella doing little, and a bit of a sour expression on his face. She bit her lip, hoping it was only the weather getting him down, and went to open the door.


	96. Heaven

**Heaven**

Mycroft felt the warmth as soon as he entered and gave a sigh of relief. This was the way it should be, to come home to a stroked fire and a cooking dinner. How he had found his empty rooms on Pall Mall a heaven less than a year ago he could not fathom.

The girl was waiting for him and helped him from his sopping jacket. She was looking much better than she had that morning, a regular angel with her golden hair and opal eyes. She almost had a glow about her, and he could not help but smile when she kissed his cheek, opening her mouth slightly to speak.

"Before you say a word, I'm going to go have a hot bath and change into some dry clothes," he cut her off, hanging up his jacket where it proceeded to create a puddle. "I won't be fit to deal with until I do."

"Oh, but Mycroft..."

"It won't take me an hour. Salmon for dinner?"

"Yes, but..."

"An hour, Ann. I can feel pneumonia trailing me." He did not notice the flicker of annoyance on her face as he went up the stairs, and he certainly did not know that if she was any less of a lady, she might have screamed in pure frustration.


	97. Dreams

**Dreams**

Mycroft Holmes's place in the world had always been rooted in his lack of ambition. Ever since he was old enough to know what the word meant, Sherlock had been blathering on about being a detective. Young Mycroft, upon hearing such bold declarations, had stuck his nose back in his book.

Sherlock had always had his dream. Mycroft had never bothered to think up one. That became the line between a national hero and an auditor.

Lately, however, even the public was seeing that he held a much more lofty rank thanks to Dorsey's unneeded extolling. He was not quite sure how he felt about this; he may have been stately, but he was not the heroic type.

Allow it. You can hardly stop it, and it makes the girl happy, he thought to himself, trying to let his thoughts drift away in the warm bathwater. _I really should tell her I adore her tonight if I see the opportunity to do so without making an idiot of myself._


	98. Love

**Love**

He was going to tell her tonight if it killed him (which it was likely to do). Three short words, that was all there was to it. It should not have been that hard.

"Ann...?" His mouth suddenly felt dry. He could not say it, not now. His voice had been soft; with any luck she had not even heard him and he could try again some other time.

"Yes, Mycroft?" Luck did not seem to be on his side that night.

Am I blushing...? God, I feel like I am... He quickly gestured towards the china teapot between them on the table. "I think the tea's gone cold. Would you mind terribly putting another pot on?" 

The girl smiled and rose, picking up the pot and kissing his cheek on the way to the kitchen. "I love you, too, Mycroft."

His blush deepened as he shooed her away. _Foolish girl! Did I say a thing about love?_


	99. Light

**Light**

She made her way through the carpeted hallway after fetching the glass of water from the kitchen, taking the time to compose herself. The only sounds that reached her ears were the ticking of the hall clock and the soft breathing of the Siamese cat curled up at its base.

When she opened their bedroom door she paused, seeing her husband's form draped with shadows from the oil light and remembering their wedding night. Had she actually thought he would hurt her...? She knew she had, but now wondered how she could have been so foolish.

"Something wrong...?" he asked, voice already layered with sleep and his eyes closed.

"No, Mycroft..." The glass was set on the bedside table as she slid in next to him. With her head resting on his chest, she could hear the solid pounding of his heart. She hated to ruin a moment so perfect, but knew she had to. "Mycroft..."


	100. Creation

_AN: Thank you to all my readers and reviews for a wonderful ride. Rest assured, I never saw the outcome of this project. Keep an eye out for the sequel in a week's time. Thank you again, and goodnight._

**Creation**

Mycroft had settled into the near ideal end to a simple but wonderful evening. Drowsy from the heat of the fireplace, he did not so much as open his eyes when Ann Marie nestled herself next to him and rested her head on his chest. It was a little unusual, but perhaps she was feeling unwell again...

"Mycroft..." she began, her voice somewhat anxious.

He was too tired for idle chat and merely murmured something inane, hoping whatever it was could wait for morning.

"We're... We're expecting."

This garnered a half-open watery eye in her direction. "Expecting what...?" Both eyes opened to confirm the pointed look that sent everything clicking into place. "Oh... Well..." His eyes closed again.

"Mycroft, are you quite alright? You've gone pale."

"Have I?" he questioned, struggling for monotony. He was perfectly alright; he merely wanted to keep his eyes closed until the room stopped spinning. He was sure it would soon.


End file.
